


and let perpetual light shine upon them

by jadeddiva



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 06:12:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadeddiva/pseuds/jadeddiva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Willas does not lust for fame or fortune or glory or a name that will be long remembered, but he loves his family and would do anything for them.  When Loras falls victim to a curse (foolish child, kissing a girl he does not love), Willas may just have to save his family after all.   A retelling of Sleeping Beauty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and let perpetual light shine upon them

**_and let perpetual light shine upon them_ **

_“They said to me ‘this is yours to wear.  You’re the chosen one, there’s no turning back.’ – Bat for Lashes, **Horse & I**_

This story begins, as so many stories of its kind do, with a beautiful girl.  Or at least, rumors of her beauty exist, so we must assume that she is, at least, fair – or fair enough to enrapture the hearts of those who speak of her.

Of course, it might just be the curse, but we can never be sure.

But let us return to this beautiful girl, who sleeps, and the town that sleeps with her. 

There is a town – not just a mere town, rather, but a city - the capital of seven kingdoms, a city of kings and queens, a city where everyone sleeps.  They sleep standing up, or sitting still, or lying down. They are captured by sleep wherever they last were, or so the stories from the princes say.  They sleep, unable to be woken, lest the girl herself sleeps.

There are many stories about this sleeping city and the beautiful girl who lies there at the center.  Some say she is a wolf-maid from the North, caught by the lioness of the South and made to pay for her family’s sins.  Others say she was to be queen, but the evil Queen and her evil son have bargained with ancient powers to keep her away from the throne lest she be right and merciful.  Still others say that the magic, so lost from this world, is returning (of course, these people also speak of the Queen of Dragons in the east, but we know that this is just a story meant to scare little children into behaving, so we think not of it).

Of course, there are others that know the real story, yet they do not speak at all.

...

Willas loves the copse of trees that lay south of the main road into Highgarden.  They are birches, with tall branches and leaves that turn fiery red in the fall.  He finds solace in their summer shade, which hides him from his siblings and other passersby while letting him keep an eye on the road.

His sketchbook spread across his lap, Willas continues to study the swans gliding along the riverbank.  It is rare that swans arrive in the Reach, being more accustomed to the Riverlands, but these two seem comfortable to be on the Mander as they must be on the Red Fork. 

There is a noise in the brush, and then a call.  “Willas”

The swans, startled, move from their lazy position and Willas knows his work is done for today.  More noise – it must be Garlan – and then his younger brother emerges from the trees onto the riverbank.

“Here you are – Mother has us looking high and low for you.”

Willas sighs and closes his sketchbook.  “If Mother has sent you looking for me, it must truly be important.”  He reaches for his cane, but Garlan is by his side, helping him stand.

“Not entirely,” Garlan admits.  Willas steadies himself, shifting his cane to support his left leg.  “Just a visitor from Kings Landing.”

A shiver goes down Willas’ spine at the thought of Kings Landing.  “A knight? Out here in the Reach?”

“From the Stormlands, headed to Oldtown,” his brother tells him. “One of the Baratheon brothers from Storms End.” 

“The king’s own brother?” Willas is even more surprised.

The two walk back to their household in silence, Willas turning this information over and over in his head.  Few if any venture into Kings Landing these days, and to head to Oldtown, to the Citadel to seek the maesters – he is almost frightened to think what the knight saw in the capital city, and Garlan says precious little about what the knight has already told them.

Renly Baratheon is barely a knight, Willas learns, and barely older than he is, but his younger brother Loras hangs on to every word that Renly speaks (when he ignores most of what Willas tell him). 

Renly’s brother was once the king, before tragedy befell the city, ending his reign.  Instead of rebelling against  each other to gain control, the seven territories decided to rule themselves, and save for the trade between them, there was little travel.  Except to Kings Landing, of course, where every able-bodied knight went to try and break the curse.

“Did you see the princess?” Margaery asks, and Mother sends her a sharp look from the end of the table.  Renly, who seems amiable, smiles at Margaery and shakes his head.

“It was not the princess I was looking for,” he tells her, “and the sleeping girl is just a girl, not a princess.”

“Did you see the girl?” Margaery prodes excitedly.  From his place beside Willas, Garlan stifles a cough.  _Of course she wishes she were the girl in question_ , Willas thinks; to be the topic of conversation in seven kingdoms would be Margaery’s dream.

“Alas, I did not make it as far as the Keep,” Renly says.  “No knight can get into the keep.  There are evil things guarding the sleeping girl, things whose nature we do not understand.”  Renly’s eyes darken, as if remembering what he has seen, and he reaches for his wine.

“Is it true what they say, that you cannot take anything from the Sleeping City?” Loras asks, and Renly nods.  His eyes seem to brighten again when looking at Loras, not yet seventeen and already known as a boy with potential for greatness as a Knight.

“Everything is bound to the place, and those that do manage to take something from the city are cursed themselves.   Along the entire road into the city there are thieves who now sleep with the city.”

Willas can see his mother shiver out of the corner of his eye, and he is silent as Loras questions the young man about battles until the young man offers Loras the position as his squire.  Father agrees immediately – being squire to the king’s younger brother is still prestigious, even if the king is cursed – and when supper ends, Willas finds that he is very tired.

“What do you think of his story?” Garlan asks as they climb the stairs to their chambers.   Willas walks slowly, his left leg hurting from sitting so long at the river today.   He looks behind them, but there is no one lingering to hear his words.

“I don’t know,” he tells Garlan.  “I don’t think entering the Keep would be easy, even if you are the king’s brother.  We’ve all heard tales.”

“Tales, of course, but of the city.  Do they really think a girl slumbers inside the Keep? Do they really think that she is the cause of everything?”

“If we knew those answers, do you think there would be a curse?” Willas asks.  “I very much doubt it.”

That night, he cannot sleep.  In his dreams there is a girl with hair the color of fire, and lips the color of the pink roses that bloom around Highgarden.  It is a familiar dream, one he has had for nearly ten years since the curse was placed on the capital city.  He knows not what it means but the dream that lingers into the early hours of the next morning.

...

Because of its place on the Rose Road, near Oldtown, Highgarden receives its fair share of visitors from the east.  As such, it receives its fair share of stories about Kings Landing.

Some of the stories paint the Sleeping City as a land trapped in time – the mouse stopped from eating its cheese mid-bite, same as the man at the table above him.  Children do not grow old, people do not die, they just sleep and when they wake, they will be the same as when the curse was laid on them.

Some of the stories tell of a dragon that haunts the depths of the city, of green fire that burns would be saviors in their boots.  These tales are the ones that keep children up at night, fearful of monsters lurking in corners.

Some of the stories speak of more horrible things – anger, betrayal, innocence lost – and they are the ones that make mothers clutch their babes to their chest and pray for better days to come.

Willas has grown up hearing these stories, and for the most part he does not find them frightening.  He was fifteen when the curse was cast, and he had already seen Kings Landing, once, when his father had business with the king.  He remembers the tall gates that lead into the city, and the poor huddled at the base of the keep.  He remembers dining on fine gold plates and eating pheasant and truffles and other food not common to the surrounding area (his father later explained the opulence by saying that the king deserves the best, but even at fifteen Willas could tell his father didn’t really mean it). 

From what he remembers, he couldn’t think of a better city to be frozen forever than that wretched hellhole.

...

Time passes.  Willas celebrates his name day without Loras for the first time since he was seven.   His brother writes them excited letters about Oldtown and the Citadel, always casting Renly Baratheon in a heroic light that Willas is not entirely sure exists around the older man.  

Now that his is in his twenty-fifth year, Mother and Father press him once again to think about marrying, but he can’t consider anyone except the girl that he dreams of nearly every night.  He doesn’t tell his parents that, of course; he tells them that he doesn’t want to marry, that Garlan can be the heir if he wishes.  Garlan has a girl that he visits at Cider Hall, and while Willas has only heard about her, he thinks that she would be a better lady of this house than anyone who might be solicited to marry him.

It doesn’t help that none of the ladies that flit about the edges of the dance floor whenever a feast is held, who try to ensnare his heart by batting their eyes and laughing with mouths open far too wide – none of them have hair the color of burning embers, none of them have eyes the color of the sky. 

When Willas dreams, he always dreams of her.  He’s tried to sketch her on occasion, but her nose is never perfect and her eyes never look as happy as they do in his dreams.  There is something off about how he draws her and how he sees her in his dreams, racing in front of him or holding his hand, her laugher the sound of bells ringing from dawn to dusk.

She is in his dreams more often than not, and even if he does not know her name, he knows she lingers in him, and that is enough.

...

Loras returns shortly before Margaery’s name day, with Renly Baratheon and a host of knights.  Excitedly, he tells them, “Lord Baratheon is preparing a quest to Kings Landing to wake the sleeping beauty!”

As it turns out, there was a maester in Oldtown who knew about the curse, and who informed them that yes, there was a beautiful young girl at the center of it.

“From what the old maester said,” Renly tells them all at supper, “the girl who sleeps is the same who was promised to my nephew, but before their betrothal was official, she spurned his affections. My nephew, always a hotheaded child, summoned some witch or wizard to curse the girl so that she may never be with the one she truly loved.  But the witch was some wood witch who couldn’t cast a proper curse, so when the girl fell, so did the city.”

“It seems like a proper curse if even though who steal from the city are affected by it,” Willas points out.  Renly smiles his charming smile, as if he already said what Willas mentioned, and continues.

“The girl loved another, someone who was not my nephew.  It seems to reason that true love’s kiss will wake her.  I’m assembling all the knights of the kingdom who would have known the girl, being of high stature herself, and bringing them to the keep to see if they can break the curse.”

“But what if the knight doesn’t love the girl?” Willas presses.  “What if it wasn’t a knight, but just a highborn boy?”

“I’ll gather them too,” Renly decides.  “After all, what sacrifice is one kiss for the good of the realm? Perhaps the man shall fall in love when he sees her.  From what I remember, she was quite fair.”

They ask Willas to come but he refuses.  “I have never loved a highborn girl,” he tells him, and retreats to his solar, attached to his bedroom, and works on his sketches.  He pulls out the one of the girl and tries to get the correct shade of blue of her eyes, but he cannot find it in all of his colors.

Perhaps he will see it again in his dreams.

There is a knock on the door, and Garlan enters.

“So you will not go to save your country?” his brother asks, throwing himself into a nearby chair.

“I highly doubt that some beautiful girl locked in a tower lusts after me,” Willas responds with a laugh.  He pats his injured leg, and shakes his head.  “And you?”

“Oh, I’m going to appease the Lord of Storm End, and to keep Loras out of trouble, but I will not kiss a girl I do not know.”  Garlan smiles, so easy that Willas envies his confidence.  “I am to marry Leonette, after all.”

“Has that been finalized?  You’ve finally worn her down?” Willas asks.  Garlan just shrugs his shoulders.

“Will you not come?”

Willas shakes his head, eyes resting on the sketch before him. 

“I am the heir to Highgarden.  I will stay here, and keep watch, and greet you when you return.”

Willas has always been an oddity in his family: he has never cared much for fame or glory or fortune or if he did, those days have long since passed.  Adventure does not tempt him as much as it does Garlan or Loras.  He is happy to stay here.

Garlan rises.  “I shall tell you all about my adventure while you stay here and sketch your mysterious women.  You have an active imagination, brother – are you sure you do not wish to come with us to save our kingdom and win the heart of our sleeping beauty?”

“A nameless girl, slumbering for ten years, does not tempt me.”  Willas rises, putting his weight on his right leg. 

“She’s not nameless,” Garlan says, taking Willas’ arm to help him even though he knows Willas does not need assistance.  “She’s Lady Sansa of House Stark, or so Renly’s tale goes.”

“House Stark?” Willas is only mildly surprised.  House Stark is a great Northern house.  The Lord and his daughters were in Kings Landing when the curse was cast, but other than hearing vague mutterings of uprisings in the North, he has not heard this.  Perhaps it has been kept a secret for important reasons.

“Good luck, then,” Willas tells Garlan.  “Let us hope one of you will wake the girl and restore our land to its glory.”

“I will be sure to tell you all about it, brother,” Garland says with a smile.

...

The knights and their squires leave.  The highborn men of the realm who are not knighted leave as well.  Margaery devours all of the letters from Garlan and Loras that speak of nothing of importance:  the cold rain that follows them through most of their journey, the growing number of men that join them each day, the distance from the capital city.

“Oh Willas,” she sighs, “it sounds like an adventure.”

“A cold, wet one at that.”  He reads Garlan’s latest letter again.  They are but five day’s ride from the Sleeping City, and Garlan has told them about the apprehensiveness of the company.  _There are stories being told about the girl, and the men wager on her beauty.  They worry that she is not fair at all and that they have come this far, at such an expense, for nothing save their own death. We grow nervous and weary, though Lord Baratheon urges us onward each day._

The letters become more sporadic as the company reaches the city.

Willas spends his free time sketching, running his dogs, taking his falcons out to test their strength and speed.  He ignores the murmurings from his parents about his own martial state, and instead encourages Margaery, who wants to be married.  All the eligible men, however, are on the quest to wake the Lady Sansa, and there are not as many offers from noble houses as she would hope.  

Margaery becomes his constant companion.  To her credit, though she follows him to the river, she remains silent, watching the swans and watching him sketch.

“I always wondered why you came here,” she tells him.  “Now I understand.  It’s so quiet and lovely and you cannot hear Father’s bellowing.”

Willas laughs.  He starts to teach Margaery to sketch, but she has always been better with embroidery, and she finds inspiration in his pair of swans.

He becomes reliant on Margaery as he once was on Garlan.   They talk of their fears for their brothers, their hopes for the future, their love of their family.  She helps him up to his bedroom t night, and meets him to break his fast each day.  There is a selflessness in her actions that surprises him, and he dislikes that he could think her only vain and foolish.   There is more to his sister than meets the eye.

The dreams become more frequent, sometimes interrupting Willas’s waking hours: a bright flame reminds him of the mysterious girl’s hair; there are occasions when he swears he hears laughter, or sees skirts disappear down corridors only to find no one there.   He orders sleeping draughts, but she is still there behind his eyelids, taunting him with her proximity in sleep.

When he wakes, however, she is only a memory. 

There is a bitterness rising in his throat with each waking moment.  There is an ache inside of him, whether because of Garlan’s absence or by that of the girl’s.  She does not exist in any place but his dreams and the sketches that are never quite right and she haunts him.  The more she lingers in the periphery of his vision, the more angry and frustrated he becomes. 

He can never have her, and in Kings Landing, a man will kiss a sleeping girl and claim a love Willas will never know.  Dreams are only figments of the imagination, wisps of air that disappear at first light.

He orders more sleeping draught.

...

Garlan returns.

His horse is quivering beneath him.  _He_ is quivering, exhausted and feverish from coming straight from the capital, stopping only to change horses.

“I must tell you,” he grasps at Willas’ shoulder as they lead him inside, “I came to tell you – “

“There will be time to tell me,” Willas says reassuringly, and Garlan only whispers, “Loras” before sleep claims him.

They maintain a bedside vigil as Garlan twists and turns, fever burning his brow.   Margaery finds Willas, places her hand in his, rests her head on his shoulder.

“I do not know that I like adventures very much,” she says softly. 

“Not all adventures are like this,” he tells her. “At least, I don’t think so.  I have no knowledge of adventures, but if good didn’t triumph at some point, would we have so many happy stories?” He smiles, and Margaery smiles too, even as Garlan sleeps uneasily.

The fever breaks by morning and then, he tells them:

Loras is gravely injured.  He kissed the sleeping girl first, and now he’s joined those sleeping at the feet of the Lady Sansa because it was not true love’s kiss, not with Loras.  There are others who have tried before Renly’s quest, a great many, so many that it is impossible to read the dais that she rests on without stepping carefully over them. 

“But Willas,” Garlan whispers, reaching out for his brother’s hand, “you know the girl.”

“What do you mean?” Willas asks.

“You must know her; you draw her all the time.”

A sudden chill runs down his spine.  “I know the girl?” he asks.  “How could I possible know Lady Sansa? I have never met anyone from House Stark before.” 

“No, you have,” Father says from his corner of the bed.  “When I took you to Kings Landing as a young lad, I met with Lord Stark.  He was Hand of the King.  You went riding with his daughter.”

Willas stares at his father, brow furrowed. “I don’t remember any of this.” His time in Kings Landing ended with the tourney that cost him the use of his left leg.  It ended with milk of the poppy and tremendous pain.  He has no memory of meeting Lord Stark, let alone his daughter.  This troubles him, because if he was the one that should have kissed the girl - Sansa Stark – and he refused to go, then Loras sleeps in the Red Keep because of him.

His heart pounds in his chest.   “She is the girl you draw,” Garlan tells him.  “Hair as red as the sunrise, skin as pale as snow.  I have looked over your shoulder long enough to recognize her features, you draw her so well.”

Willas sits down, troubled by this news.  “I do not know – I draw what I dream.  I dream of a girl with red hair, and blue eyes, and a field, and that is all I know.”

Father sighs.  “She had blue eyes.”

His heart flutters, his stomach turns, Willas feels light-headed and dizzy. “I am not champion.  I am not a knight.” _I cannot do this_ , he wants to say.  He has an injured leg and he wants to stay home with his dogs and his puppies and his barge trips on the river.  Yet, even thinking that sickens him.  He truly is craven, and not fit to rule Highgarden and the Reach after all.

Garlan smiles sadly on his sickbed.  “You dream of her, Willas.  Perhaps the story is true, and she loved someone other than the Prince.  Perhaps she loved you.”

Willas rubs his eyes violently, as if to clear his sight – as if to call up the image of the young girl that Father says he met.  It is no use, and he feels desperate – trapped by the foolishness of a Prince who brought a curse on the land and Willas’ own love for his family.  He cannot allow his brother to sleep forever, not if he can help him. 

Especially when his very happiness is possibly within his grasp. There is a reason Sansa Stark lingers in his dreams, and if at the very least it is to have him free her, than it is upon him – on his honor as a Tyrell – save her.  If perhaps there is more...

Willas is very tired of being haunted, and very tired of being alone.

“If the very worst that happens is that I fall asleep,” Willas says, “perhaps that is a fate I can accept.”

It is decided: he will set out in the morning for Kings Landing.  Father wants to send guards with him, but Willas refuses.  “What good is a cripple to an outlaw?” he tells them all.  “I will go alone.”

His decision to go to Kings Landing is muddled with shifting priorities: there is Loras to consider, and Willas feels fiercely protective of his youngest brother.   He would risk heaven and earth for his family and a difficult journey to Kings Landing seems to be a small price to pay for his brother’s safety.

And then there is the Lady Sansa herself.  Though he does not remember meeting her, he has dreamt of her for so long that she is a part of him.  The thought – that his dream might come true, that she might be meant for him, and he for her – flickers at the edge of every thought as he packs his bag, chooses his horse, and chooses his sword (Garlan’s only request, and one that Willas does honor).

It is not yet day when he prepares to leave.  He has said his goodbyes to his parents in the cool hours of dawn, and has saddled Bittersteel (Loras named him, Loras always named horses and dogs with epic names from history).   He starts off, eyes lingering as he takes one last look at his home and his family.  Margaery waves from beside their mother, eyes wet with tears.

He is not far from Highgarden, keeping Bittersteel at a good pace, when he hears someone behind him, gaining with every second.  He turns the horse to face whoever has followed him, reaching for the pommel of his sword.

As the stranger draws near, Willas can easily recognize the horse.   It is Margaery’s, Rose Red, and when the stranger draws back their hood, he can see his sister, her hair bound back from her face, dressed in breeches and a heavy cloak.  Her eyes are still swollen and red from crying.

“Garlan went with Loras, and so I shall go with you,” she tells him.  “I will not let you go alone.”

“The road may be tough,” Willas warns her, a smile threatening to betray the severity of his words.  “There may be outlaws and bandits and people who would not treat you kindly.  You should not have come.”

Margaery sticks her chin out.  “I am a Tyrell of Highgarden.   I will not let you meet fate alone, brother.”

...

The road to the Sleeping City is empty.

There are a few inns where they stop for the night, but they rarely see another party heading to Kings Landing.  There are many going the opposite direction, however, and the haunted look in their eyes frightens Willas. 

Margaery has been an ideal travel companion.  It seems as if she’s become someone else overnight; gone is the girl who swooned at Loras and Garlan’s letters from camp.  There is a steel that keeps her steady – steady enough to help Willas when the pain of riding is too great, when his leg spasms and his hip aches.  She is still the girl she once was – she bemoans the lack of hot water at every inn – but there is something else – a tempered nature that he suspects was always there, hidden beneath her frivolous exterior.

They talk little of the journey they are on, but when they do, it’s in vague notions of how this might save Westeros in addition to Loras.

They break their fast one day in the shadow of a large oak tree.  Margaery asks Willas, “Do you love her?”

Willas swallows the piece of cheese he was eating.  He has not thought much of love.  He has thought of Loras, and a deep duty to his family.  But love?

“I don’t know,” he tells Margaery.  “Enraptured by her, maybe, but I’m not sure that I love her because I’m not sure what love is.  I know I love you and Garlan and Loras – “

“-and Mother and Father – “Margaery adds with a wink –

“But I’ve never loved someone as Garlan loves Leonette. I’ve never thought to try.”  Willas picks up the loaf of bread, breaks it in half.  “I suppose if I should love anyone, than perhaps it will be Lady Sansa.”

Margaery takes the bread and chews it silently.  Willas takes a moment to think about what he just said.  While Lady Sansa still lingers in his dreams, she’s further and further from his reach and she looks sadder, too, if that’s possible.

Whatever curse has been cast, Willas does not understand how it affects him, and why.  It does not seem fair, for he does not remember anything about their meeting.

Perhaps that is the greater curse.

...

It takes them a fortnight to reach the outskirts of the city, where Renly Baratheon is camped.  Willas and Margaery dismount, leading the horses into the camp.  The men seated around campfires look sad and dejected.  Renly’s tent is at the center, and Willas and Margaery find that their arrival is met with some excitement.

“Garlan sent word,” Renly says, embracing Willas.  “He said that you know the Lady Sansa – that you may be the one that we have been looking for all along.”

“Have others tried?” Willas shifts his weight, his leg paining him.  He has rode too long and too hard, but he does not want to appear feeble in front of Renly and his men.  It will be bad enough if the curse is not broken by his actions.

“Some, before we received Garlan’s letter.  They sleep now with Loras.”  Renly looks distraught, and turns away.  “We will take you to the Keep tomorrow.  Rest here tonight.  I will have cots brought for you and Lady Margaery, and make sure your horses are well fed.”

Renly leaves to see to his men, leaving Margaery and Willas alone in the tent. 

“I cannot bear to be here, and have Loras sleep in the Keep,” Margaery tells him.  Willas nods, squeezing her hand.

“Hopefully tomorrow he will be with us again.”  Willas steps outside the tent.  It is growing dark, yet the capital city is lit with a ghoulish yellow light – from what source, he does not know, because there is nothing in the sky casting that foul glow.

“The curse,” Margaery whispers.  She does not falter in the odd light but stares at the city.  Beyond the gates, Loras lies sleeping with who knows how many others.

There is a shout from the far end of the camp – riders.  Gripping Margaery’s arm, placing himself before her, Willas turns to face the incoming men.

Any apprehension is met with a loud shout of joy from Lord Renly, who embraces the riders with open arms.   He issues orders, and then brings them to his tent as well.

“Lord Willas, Lady Margaery, I would like you to meet the Lords Stark,” Renly says, introducing them.

The Lords Stark are younger than Willas.  One, Robb Stark, is the heir to Winterfell, son of the sleeping Hand of the King, brother of the sleeping beauty. The other, it seems, is his cousin, Jon, who has accompanied him here to the silent city.  They are here for Willas.

Renly orders food to be brought to the tent, wine to be poured. 

“Your reputation precedes you, Lord Willas,” Robb Stark says as they sip wine.  “Your brother informed Lord Renly that you may be the one to break this curse.” 

Willas swallows his wine.  He does not like to be the center of attention, especially when he thinks he might fail. “Mayhaps,” he tells him.  “He thinks I might be.”

“We all do,” Margaery says.  “You see the Lady Sansa in your sleep.   Perhaps it is your face that she sees as well.”  There is a severity in her look and manner that belays her belief in the dire importance of this quest.

Lord Robb smiles at Margaery’s passion, his eyes lingering on her face.  “Let us hope.  And how did you come to meet my sister, Lord Willas?"

“My lord father brought me to Kings Landing when I was a young man,” Willas says.  “He claims we met your father and sister though I do not remember it.  I was a tourney at the end of our stay, and badly injured my leg.  Much of my memories of the city have been lost to milk of the poppy.”

“Or perhaps the curse itself,” speaks the cousin, Jon.  “Curses have lives of their own. Perhaps we are nearing the end of this one.”

“A toast, then,” Renly says, raising his glass.  Others follow.  “To prosperity and perhaps an end to this curse once and for all.”

“And to love,” Margaery adds.  “That is why we are all here, are we not? For true love’s kiss will break the spell, or so we’ve been told.

Robb Stark smiles at her from across the table.  Willas notices that Margaery smiles back.

...

In his dreams that night, Lady Sansa speaks for the first time. 

Willas thinks he must be crazy – he must have heard her speak before, but perhaps it was just the dream itself? Perhaps he imagined her speaking to him?  Perhaps he is going mad?

“You are close,” she tells him.  She is seated on a rock in the field, her hands folded in her lap.  Willas draws closer.

“I am,” he responds.  “We are outside the city.”

“Will you release me from this prison?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” Willas tells her honestly.  “I hope to.  But they say only true love can break the curse.”

“You don’t remember me,” Sansa says quietly.  “I know.  I’ve heard it, while I sleep – your voice, drifting across the wind.  You tell them that you don’t remember me.”

“I don’t,” Willas admits.  “I injured my leg at the tourney shortly after I met you.”

“I cried.  I cried at your bedside until the Prince made me leave.”  Sansa looks down at her hands. “You didn’t recognize me when you woke from the milk of the poppy.”

Willas shakes his head.  He approaches the rock, but as he gets close, Sansa disappears.

He wakes with a start, breathing heavily, fearful that he has woken everyone in the large tent.   But he has not – on the cot next to his, Margaery sleeps on.  There is a partition between their small section and the rest of the tent where Renly and the Stark lords sleep. 

Willas settles himself back onto the rickety cot, but he cannot sleep.  Sometime before morning, he rises and dresses in the silent tent, and then leaves.  Outside, tendrils of dawn snake across the sky behind the silhouette of Kings Landing.

He takes a deep breath.  In that city lies a sleeping girl who may think she loves him, a girl he met ten years ago and does not remember.  In that city lies his brother, cursed.  In that city lies a Prince who may have brought the terrible tragedy down on all their heads.

He is not ready for this.  He has never lusted after bravery and valor – that has always been Garlan and Loras.  He has never wanted more than was given to him – he thought that was always Margaery.  He never even wanted to enter that tourney if his father hadn’t wished it.  _That is my downfall_ , he thinks.  _I want to do what pleases others.  I never want to do what pleases myself_.

But isn’t saving his brother, meeting the mysterious Lady Sansa – isn’t that pleasing himself?

He sighs, unsure of what he thinks or feels.

“Willas.”

Margaery has risen as well, and stands beside him in the early morning light.  She looks at him, but does not need to ask what troubles him so.  It is a relief, especially when she reaches for him, and he buries himself in her arms, allowing her shoulder to stifle the sob that threatens to rip out of his chest.

“You are a brave man, Willas Tyrell,” she tells him.  “You will kiss your lady and you will set her free.  You will save your brother, and then you can retire back to Highgarden and never battle evil again.”  He can hear the jesting in her voice, and it eases his soul.

Willas laughs.  “You know me too well, little sister.”  He takes a step back, and runs his hands through his hair.

“Are you ready to face doom and despair?” Margaery asks.  Willas smiles.

“No,” he says, “but we have come too far to turn back now.”

“Besides,” Margaery says, linking her arm with his and drawing him towards the tent, “I find Lord Robb interesting and I would like to stay.”

Willas smiles. “Interesting?”

Margaery laughs.  “Allow me my indulgence.  I’ve traveled for weeks to see yours to its completion.”

They break their fast with Renly and the Starks.  It is decided that Renly will lead them into the city, but only Willas, Margaery, and the Starks will proceed to where the Lady Sansa is being kept in a chamber near the main throne room.   There are no dangers, according to Renly, but the curse itself can be unnerving, and that is danger enough.  Men have been driven mad in the Keep, the other knights told them. 

“Be careful not to take anything,” Renly warns them all as they mount their horses.  “You may touch things to move them out of your way, but do not keep anything you touch.”

“What if Lord Willas cannot save my sister?” Robb Stark asks.  Willas sighs.  Margaery, to his left, is incensed.

“Have you little faith, Lord Stark?” she asks.  “We must believe that the Lady Sansa appears to my brother for a reason.”

Margaery does not say what they will do if Willas joins Loras in sleep, but he does not want to think about that either.  He won’t have to, after all, for he will be sleeping. 

It is difficult to feel brave as they ride into the Sleeping City.  It is silent – so very different from the first time Willas visited Kings Landing.  Flickers of memories dance before his eyes when he sees the sleeping inhabitants of the city – a baker over there sold him bread when he first entered the city; he remembers children playing in the alleyway to his left. 

As they draw closer to the Keep, light grows dim and it grows colder.  Willas shivers and draws his cloak closer around his shoulders.  Beside him, Margaery shivers.

They dismount and say goodbye to Renly.

“I know you will save us,” Renly tells Willas as he embraces him.  “I have faith in you.”

They leave Renly at the large doors that separate the Keep itself from the city beyond.   The four walk slowly through the empty courtyard, less because of Willas’s bad leg than because of fear.   He no understands how this alone could be the ruin of men.  The courtyard is so silent that Margaery’s gasp at the first sleeping body they see echoes on the cold stone. 

It is a member of the Kingsguard, slumped over at his post.  Robb takes the lead, and steps over the sleeping man.  Margaery follows, then Willas, then Lord Jon, checking to make sure they are alone.

Willas feels as if his sense are hard at work – any small sound makes his head snap in the direction it came from, any sight of a sleeping courtesan or guard makes him look twice. 

“It is a like a tomb,” Jon says.  Willas could not agree more, for the sleeping bodies appear as if they are not sleeping but dead and perfectly preserved to warn future generations of their folly.  He shakes the thought of his own brother, lying perfectly still, from his mind.   The maesters from Oldtown confirmed that the people of the city are merely in a deep sleep, but the thought of corpses does not stray from his mind as they walk down the stairs to the main hall.

In front of them is the Iron Throne, on which sits the King.  He is as fat as Willas remembers, his crown askew on his head, eyes closed in sleep.  Beside him on the dais are his council and the Queen, all sleeping.  It feels eerie, as if any moment one of them or the dozens of courtesans might rise like the White Walkers he hears so much about, the ones in the North.

The Starks must share his opinion.  They hurry through the hall as fast as Willas can manage, always make sure to keep the two Tyrells in the middle.  As they draw closer to the chamber Renly mentioned, Robb Stark draws his sword.

“It may not be necessary,” Willas tells him.  The elder Stark shrugs.

“It may be,” he says.  “I want my sister returned to me.  I will be ready lest someone prevents that.”

He pushes the door to the chamber open, but it stops halfway.

“Sleeping knights,” Willas surmises.  Sure enough, the door is blocked by those who came before them – twenty bodies separating Sansa Stark from those who wish to wake her. Willas hears Robb gasp, and watches as the other man tries to rush towards his sister.  He stops just short of the dais, where a young girl with hair as red as Willas remembers in his dreams lies in state, a pale yellow glow cast over her body.

“Sansa,” Robb says quietly.  The despair in his voice makes Willas seek out Loras’ prone form in the room.  Margaery is already rushing towards it, falling to her knees besides her cursed brother.  Willas looks away.  The sight of Loras so still, so lifeless, is enough to make him hobble forward.  He is thwarted by the bodies until Jon Stark takes his elbow and helps him, since it is difficult to keep steady footing in this tight space.

Robb Stark steps back as Willas approaches, and when he reaches the dais, his vision narrows.   He can see nothing save Sansa, red hair spread out beneath her on the cold stone, lips slightly parted, eyes closed.

“I’ve never seen her eyes closed before,” he murmurs softly.  He knows what he must do.

He sits on the stone dais, positioning himself with hands on either side of her head, sinking them into the glowing light.

He leans forward.

His lips touch hers.

...

_He is no longer in the dark chamber, but in a field.  He is on a horse.  There is no pain in his leg.  He is fifteen.  On the horizon, he can see Kings Landing.  At his side is Sansa Stark, daughter of the Hand of the King.  She is quite lovely, Willas thinks, though she is terrified._

_“I’m not very good at riding,” she tells him.  She bites her lip.  “Winters are cold and Mother did not want me out in the snow –“_

_“It’s quite alright, Lady Sansa,” Willas replies.  “I found a gentle horse for you.  I will make sure that you are safe.”_

_Her eyes light up and she smiles, and Willas’ heart skips two, three, four beats.  She is beautiful when she is happy, and he has not seen her happy his entire time here._

_They ride through the field, slowly at first and then faster as she gains more confidence, her household guards behind her.  They stop to eat at a small creek.  They talk about their families, and their homes, and Willas finds that the more she talks, the warmer her smile gets and the more at-ease she seems with him.  He likes this.  He likes her.  Perhaps he can ask Father about another trip._

_There is shouting in the distance and a horse, galloping at great speed.  Beside him, Sansa tenses.  Her eyes fill with tears which she quickly wipes away._

_“Oh no,” she whispers.  She turns away from the commotion, clenching her hands at her sides.  Her face changes – becomes more somber, perhaps, but when she turns around all look of fear and apprehension is erased.  Instead, there is nothing that Willas has seen of the girl he spent the afternoon with._

_Willas turns see who is arriving, and surprised to find it is the Prince._

_“Lady Sansa,” the Prince snarls, “you did not ask my permission to ride with Lord Willas.”_

_“Was it necessary?” Willas asks.  “It was her father’s idea, and a young unmarried lady only asks her father for permission.”_

_The Prince turns to face Willas.   Willas stands his ground, even though the Prince is above him on a horse, and the horse could trample him.  He is from House Tyrell, a house almost as rich as the Prince’s own mother’s house, the Lannisters.  That alone will save the Prince from reacting._

_It surprises Willas that he considers a violent response from the Prince, but it’s almost instinctive.   To his side, Sansa, squares her shoulders._

_“My lord father requested that I take Lord Willas out riding while Lord Tyrell speaks to the King,” Sansa says.  Her tone is flat, her voice is sad.  “I am sorry, your grace, that I did not consult with you as well.”_

_That seems to appease the Prince, for he smiles.  “As my future wife, I find that I worry about you, Sansa.  Never let this happen again.”_

_“Of course, your grace.”_

_“Return to the city with me at once,” he commands.  He waits and watches as Sansa mounts her horse.  When he is satisfied, he starts off towards the city.  Sansa lingers, looking back at Willas before following the Prince.  Her guards follow her, leaving Willas alone in the field._

_He returns to the city some time later, his mind still reeling from the events of the afternoon.  There is a note waiting for him in his chambers._

**_I am so sorry_ ** _, he reads in Sansa’s handwriting.  Then, **Thank you for a lovely afternoon.  You have no idea how much it meant to me.**_

_He burns the note before joining the Hand’s family for dinner that night._

_..._

In the dark chamber, surrounded by sleeping knights, the lips of a cursed girl move softly, slowly.  Warmth floods through cold skin, muscles regain strength, breathing speeds up.  Eyes open, and find their savior before them.

A good fairy tale ends when the hero saves the girl.  This is not a good fairy tale.  We will not end with a wedding, where the girl is married to her savior, and they live happily ever after.   You see, in those sort of stories, there is no mention of what happens before the wedding, and after the victor vanquishes the monster, witch, evil Queen (or in this case, evil Prince), or whoever else has tortured our poor heroine.  There is never enough time to fully understand the circumstances that have led to the moment where the hero and the maiden fair pledge their undying love to each other in front of gods and men.

But as we said, this is a different sort of story.

When Sansa leaves the Keep, she is taken immediately from the city to the knights in the field.  She is presented to Renly Baratheon as a prize, which Willas finds distasteful.  A large tent is raised for her on the plains before the city, and she stays there, isolated, with her brother and cousin for some time.  A full guard is kept around her tent, day and night, for the sake of her safety.  She does not leave, and she shuns all visitors.  Her father, the Hand of the King, is brought to the tent as well, rescued by his firstborn son.   They do not reenter the city, and it is said that Lord Stark has forsaken his role as the King’s Hand.  There are many rumors these days, and that is just one.

The inhabitants of the city tend to treat matters much like the Starks:  many leave the city, though others hole themselves inside their homes, and try not to think of what happened.  The King requests audience after audience will all those involved, including the four that brought Lady Sansa and Ser Loras Tyrell from the chamber where they slept.  Willas and Margaery linger through these audiences.  Willas must tell in excruciating detail how he woke Sansa, and Loras must explain how he fell asleep. 

No one has found the Prince, and none of the four speak of what really happened in the chamber to full satisfaction of king and council.  It is not until a (drunken) red priest from Essos proclaims that the curse has bound them to silence in its breaking that the questioning ceases.

A tent is raised for Willas and Margaery as well, though Loras stays with Renly in his tent with his commanders.   They spend their days idly, watching Loras get well again, writing letters home.  The more time they spend, however, the more they realize that they will not see the Starks again, for all of their requests to visit with them are rebuked.

“I cannot stay any longer, Willas,” Margaery declares finally.  “Let us leave tomorrow, and return home.  There is nothing for us here.”

If there is a shade of sadness in Margaery’s eyes when she speaks to him, it is gone the next moment, replaced with the steel that he has come to know.  This journey has changed her.  There are suitors that visit at all hours, but she refuses them, staring mournfully at the Stark tent when she thinks Willas is not looking.

It would be good to go home, if not for Margaery’s sake than for his own as well.

Her words are like a heavy stone on his heart, but they only confirm what he has long since thought.  His only purpose was to wake the sleeping beauty – there was no deeper reward than that, no alternate meaning to his quest.  He will return home to Highgarden, alone, which he admits is a relief.  It is better to embrace the familiar.

They make the necessary preparations, tending to their horses and letting Loras know they are leaving.  He insists on joining them, which makes Willas glad.  Their mother will be happy to see her family once more, though Renly seems more than upset at Loras’ decision.  Willas chooses not to get involved.

Instead, he is packing his saddlebags when there is movement outside of his tent flap. 

“Hello?” he calls out.  “Is someone there?”

Sansa ducks into the tent, closing the flap behind her.  It is the first time that he has seen her since he brought her to Renly so many days ago.  She wears a blue dress, and her hair is bound behind her. 

She is so beautiful it breaks his heart.

He has decided, since the first time that he was turned away at the Stark tent, to not pursue the issue.  He has waited for a summons, but to no avail.   He is a selfish man, concerned more with himself and his family than others.  He has done his duty to his country, and he will always be known as Willas Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Breaker of Curses and Savior of Men.  That is enough.

It will be enough to prevent him from pursuing a girl who does not return his affections, a girl he barely knows and spent ten years dreaming of.  It is not what he wants, but it will be enough. 

“I am sorry that we have not spoken.  My father wishes to thank you for your bravery, but I think his honor gives him some difficulty thanking a man who kissed his daughter and who visited her in dreams.”  A smile plays at Sansa’s lips.   “I find that I must thank you as well, for coming all this way when you did not remember me, save for dreams.   I heard that you and your family leave tomorrow, to return to Highgarden?”

“There is little for us here,” Willas admits with a sigh.  He rises, stretching his injured leg.   “It will be good to go home.”

Sansa turns away at his words, looks at the ground.   “Of course,” she says.  “I miss Winterfell, and  am eager to return.”

“Family has a strange pull, it seems.”   Willas clears his throat, feeling awkward – he has never had a silver tongue like Margaery or an ease with conversation like Garlan.  “And you, my lady? How have you been?”

“Well, though I do not sleep.  I think I have slept enough for some time.”  Sansa wrings her hands together, and takes a deep breath.  “I think of how much I missed, sleeping for so long.  How different will my mother look? My sisters?  My brothers?  They are all older than me now.”

“You missed much, but you will still have your chance to live your life,” Willas tells her, trying to sound reassuring but falling flat.  His leg hurts, and he sits down again.  Sansa crosses the room to stand before him.  She takes his face in his hands, and he feels heat in his cheeks.  It is a surprising act, and one that makes him catch is breath.

“You’re older,” she tells him, fingers trailing along his chin.  “You are a man grown, and I am still a young girl.”

He reaches for her hands, stops her shaking fingers from tracing the contours of his face.  “Why does it matter?” he asks quietly.  She bites her lip.

“Because a grown man can’t love a girl,” she says plainly.  “You cannot love me if I am still so young.”

Her words cut through Willas like a knife.  It has always been love, or what she thinks love is, so it seems.  Can it be...?

“You were born the same year I was,” he says.  “You have been cursed.  And do you really think me so petty to only care that you are younger than I?”

She bites her lip again, to keep it from trembling, and Willas enfolds her hands in his.  “What I know of you, I find quite endearing.  But I do not know that I love you, nor that you love me.  You are not the only one with faults,” he says, pointing to his leg.

“I do not care about your leg,” Sansa whispers.  “I only care that you treat me kindly and respectfully.  I do not know that I love you any more than a young girl loves the gallant knight who saves her, but I do think, in time, perhaps...”

Willas presses a kiss to her fingertips, and releases her hands with a heavy heart. “When I first met you, I thought that you were lovely, and that I should inquire about a betrothal.” 

“So I was right to think that you thought well of me,” Sansa tells him, a shy smile creeping across her lips.  “I thought something similar, but I realized that I was already promised to another.”

“I am sorry that I forgot you.  I will not do the same again.”

Sansa’s eyes look up, surprised.  “What do you mean by that?”

Willas smiles.  “I do not know what cruel trick fate has played on us, but I will go home tomorrow, and you will remain.  Perhaps you will go north, perhaps not.  But I will write to you, and you can tell me everything you never told me in the tens years that have passed, while you haunted my dreams.”

A bright smile, one very much like Willas remembers from his dreams, spreads across her face.  “I would like that very much.”

Willas laughs, feeling as if a weight has been released from his chest.  “I hope that is enough to make your days easier.  I know it is enough for me.”

Sansa takes a step forward.  “It is enough,” she says.   “You are enough.”

Willas finds that he very much likes being Breaker of Curses and Savior of Men after all.

...

This story ends, as so many do, with a wedding, but it is not between our sleeping beauty and her true love (or so he may be – their story is only beginning).   Instead, it is between the sister of our hero, and the brother of our beauty.  They marry on a cool fall day, in the North, and the bride is promised enough hot water to satisfy her for all the years to come.

When the bridal cloak of Tyrell green and gold is traded for Stark white and black, the bride’s brother smiles at the sister of the groom from across the aisle. It is a smile that comes from months of clandestine correspondence, born of knowing secrets long since told to anyone else.  It is the smile of something that will grow strong, and survive winter, and all the other platitudes that litter the pillowcases and handkerchiefs of women of these noble houses.

It is a smile for another story, one still yet to come, but it is enough for this story.


End file.
